


eventually

by channexmogar



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Cold, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Internal Conflict, Internal Monologue, M/M, POV Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Prison, Remorse, Solitary Confinement, the prison arc but make it tender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:00:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29506581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/channexmogar/pseuds/channexmogar
Summary: Eventually, Dream will be taken away from this place. He'll go somewhere far away, and bask in the moonlight that he's missing. But for now, it's all the same, and he can only escape in his sleep.
Relationships: (IMPLIED), Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	eventually

**Author's Note:**

> im not a dream apologist. unless i am? /j

Everything is the same. 

When he regains consciousness, the obsidian still _drip, drip, drips,_ falling onto his head and staining his skin dull. It’s surprisingly cold—even with something so hot, molten just within reach. 

There’s a pit that’s spiraling into a black hell in his stomach, and **everything** is the same. 

He’s trembling— _why is he trembling?_ His lip quivers and it’s cold, so cold, and his handwriting is getting shaky. He flips through the pages of one of his books, the only solace in a world of dry throats and achy chills. What he wouldn't do for a blanket, but he's too proud to even ask.

 _Eventually_ , he says. He always says eventually now, in need of a word to keep him from sinking underneath the murky waters blackening his mind. So he says eventually, eventually, eventually.

_Eventually, someone will come for me._

  
Tommy won’t come for him. That’s obvious. a drop _drip-drip-drips_ onto his page and hits his pointer finger; he jumps in surprise and knocks his shoulder on the back wall, teeth grinding in the pain that comes from it. He’s so tired, so weak, and it all aches.  
He shakes his hand free, trying to stop it from turning him a scarred, sad gray—it never works. The ink is draining from the page like tears from his sickened eyes. 

Maybe Techno would come for him... but probably not. That favor had way less leverage in here than out there. Sudden rage coils in him, boils his blood and he rips the page, balls it up but then that isn’t good enough, so he starts tearing it in little pieces, creating a kingdom of his own with scraps of crunching paper he calls George and Sapnap as if it’s simpler times. He'd forgotten about the simple times, and it got him here, and he'd had no mercy. 

His eyes go alight at the thought of them coming for him. His heroes: his friends, able to see the best and worst in him, able to understand even the flick of his thumb and the tilt of his head. He swallows thinking of them, hallucinating their visages and he wants to reach out and touch their cheeks and remember that they were his. They aren't his anymore. It is no longer the simpler times; please, have mercy.

Despite the rotten disgust of truth, he still says _eventually_. _Eventually, someone will come for me._

Someone else was meant to rot and die in here. Sometimes he thinks of it; someone else was meant to spend the rest of their miserable lives waiting, right here, for anything to happen. Tears make him forget who it was but it wasn’t meant to be him. He's lost his humanity in this purple-blocked room with the tearstained ceiling, and it shouldn't have been him. Bitterly he remarks that it shouldn't have been anyone.   
One torn page becomes four and now he’s constructing memories out of paper crumbles from his spot in the cold cold corner. He leads friends into battle—he makes memories, finds love in a heart of darkness, makes many, many mistakes. He loses wars and watches others take place, plays witness to the moment he began losing everything, gaining nothing. His spirit is depleted, but when did he start caring about spirit?

And then...

... _Eventually_...

...he’s alone.

  
He finds sleep, curled up in a ball on the teary-eyed floor, with his eyes on the clock. Outside, the world goes by without him. Does it miss him? Not the people, but the earth, the grass and the trees that he once scaled for resources long ago. Does the sun miss him, his warm heart and brilliant flame of loyalty, his bright smile that had faded with a harsh and warped reality? Does the moon miss him, with her gentle gaze, watching over her great nocturnal creatures like a queen on a throne he had stolen?

He dreams of them, their sweet kiss. He craves their touch on his throat, hot bursts of sunlight, cool whips of moonlight. There are colors in his dreams, but no purple; he’s so god-damn sick and tired of purple. 

Everything is the same when he wakes up. His hair is turning gray, his skin turning ghostly, his mind turning sickly—not like anyone minds. Not that he minds, really. He is becoming the unfinished symphony.   
The Warden had been by at some point while he was out because his little constructed paper town is dead and buried in the molten flame. He shouldn't have gotten attached; he had to get out of the mindset of attachment.  
He pulls himself up from the ground and stares at his clock, yearning for the touch of the little sun clicking by with the hours to be genuine. His sun had come, but not for him; his sun had stolen voice from his throat, made him scream himself even hoarser than hoarse, let me out, let me out, take me with you. 

It wouldn't have happened, anyway. He had destroyed the sun's heart and wrung him out, expecting another vibrant dawn. But... the moon...

 _Eventually_ , he thinks, turning his scarred gaze to his ghostly reflection in his cloudy, sick water. 

_...Eventually, the moon will deliver me. And he... he will have mercy._

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @channexmogar


End file.
